


Hey Jealousy

by alltheshinywords



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4253829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheshinywords/pseuds/alltheshinywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While doing the publicity circuit post-Jurassic World, Claire receives an interesting proposition on the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon that has Owen seeing green.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I love these characters and adore all the wonderfully angsty fics I've been reading about them, but wanted to play with something a bit more lighthearted. Enjoy!

“…so, the real big money question of the night is—are you dating anyone?”

 

Watching from the green room backstage of The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, Owen paused with his coffee cup halfway up to his mouth, waiting to hear how Claire would respond. Even through the monitor, he could see her discomfort—the way her smile had frozen on her face, and the hand that drifted up to smooth down her perfectly coiffed hair.

 

And Harvard-educated, corporate-groomed, itinerary-making Claire Dearing—who had spent the last two months fielding questions that painted her as a devil and a high-heel-wearing savior and everything in between without so much as batting an eye—looked at the camera, almost beseechingly, and blinked. “Ummm…” she said at last, letting it trail on for half a syllable longer than it should have.

 

To be fair, it was a pretty accurate answer, all things considered. They’d agreed on the island that they should stick together for survival, and they had. It seemed so simple then, so natural, so easy¬¬--the most no-brainer choice he’d made, ever. He still felt that way, after two months of sleeping on her couch. Two months of seeing her first-thing-in-the-morning hair and hearing her hum in the shower. But things off the island were…complicated. For starters, there’d been the kids calling those first few weeks at all hours of the day, and what was Owen supposed to say? _Not now, Gray, I’m boning your aunt_. Then there was the thing where both of them were out of a job, where the threat of lawsuit was hanging over Claire’s head and people were sending her threatening letters and leaving irate messages on the home number that was supposed to be private, shouting such obscene things that Owen had finally unplugged the answering machine --

 

( _and maybe run over it with his motorcycle a couple times for good measure, though even that couldn’t completely erase the ghost-sick look Claire got on her face, because he knew a part of her agreed with everything those bastards were saying_ ).

 

There was the thing, too, of them tag-teaming taking turns screaming in their sleep. And, yes, there was an intimacy to being the person to brush someone’s sweaty hair out of their face and whisper no, the world wasn’t ending, I’m here, _I’m here_. Something maybe more intimate than he’d ever experienced before with another human being—and, though they hadn’t discussed it, he suspected the same was true for her. And that was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, but it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t simple, and no, they hadn’t talked about it what it meant to survive together because they were too busy actually surviving together.

 

But…were they dating? That was the golden question, Jimmy Fallon, and one that Owen had been pondering with increasing frequency now that the nightmares were only coming every other dream and he’d had a chance to return to his regularly scheduled programming of red hair and peaches-and-cream skin and that lip-biting, curly smile thing she did when she was trying her hardest not to laugh at something he’d said. God, he liked that lip-biting, curly smile thing…

 

They did so many things together. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Trips to Wisconsin and sledding with the boys. She’d cut his hair once, which had been about one thousand different layers of torture, her face so serious and so close and her fingers tugging and brushing and curling at his scalp. He’d seen her naked once, when she hadn’t realized he was home and had stripped down with the door open to her bedroom and he’d stared and stared before he finally made himself go out of the house and come back in, making all kinds of noise to announce his presence.

 

One time… one time there had maybe been an invitation. He’d played it over and over again in his mind so many times that he couldn’t be sure what was real and what he’d wanted to be real. The facts were they’d stayed up too late and drunk a few too many beers. Claire was asking him if the couch was comfortable, then before even really letting him answer, kind of stammered that he could always sleep somewhere else if it wasn’t. And Owen, being the jackass that he was, had bristled, assuming that was her polite way of telling him to get out, and blustered about how he’d been looking for a new place and had something lined up with a realtor for Monday, which was a lie. Claire had gotten really quiet— _he thought? Wasn’t there a moment when she got quiet?_ —then the next second, bright as can be as she suggested using an Excel spreadsheet to weigh out the pros and cons of each place he saw. She could show him how to format it, in the morning.

 

Only in the morning, she never brought it up, and neither did he, and he started to wonder if that was what she’d meant at all, or if you could always sleep somewhere else had really been the door being swung wide open before he’d kicked it shut again.

 

Idiot.

 

So, yeah. Owen was interested to see how she’d answer the question. So was the rest of Jimmy’s audience, based on their reaction—cheering her on like she was America’s sweetheart instead of the most polarized figure in world news.

 

“Look at her blush!” Jimmy heckled good-naturedly. “Tyrannosaurus Rex coming at her at full speed, she doesn’t break a sweat. But ask her about her love life…”

 

Claire managed to laugh, a little. “Oh, I was sweating, Jimmy. Believe me, I was sweating.”

 

“Ah, but women don’t sweat, remember? They glow.”

 

“Nope. I was definitely sweating…”

 

She’d been _killing_ the interview so far, even though she’d been so nervous going into it. Before this, there had been the requisite sit-down with Barbara Walters, one with Piers Morgan, another with Oprah, but all of those were pre-taped, and InGen’s lawyers could watch over them like hawks to make sure nothing too damaging leaked through.

 

Jimmy’s people had been persistent, though, promising the live format would be a piece of cake, that the questions wouldn’t be too hard-hitting, that it would do wonders for Claire’s PR. Finally, Jimmy himself had called, reminding Claire that he’d done her a favor once with those promotional videos on the park rides. ( _“A $500,000 favor,” Claire grumbled when she hung up the phone, though it still proved to do the trick._ )

 

At last she agreed, provided that they fly Owen out with her. He wasn’t much of a big city guy—too many people, not enough sky—and he didn’t give a rat’s ass about celebrities, but even he had been impressed by the night’s lineup. ( _“Rock Hadley!” he’d enthused to Claire, though she’d merely shaken her head at the YouTube video he pulled up of the Australian adventurer swimming with wild orcas, muttering about testosterone under her breath_.) And even more impressed by the hotel room provided courtesy of the Jimmy Fallon show, which Owen couldn’t help but notice had a decided lack of sofa—just one big king-sized bed, built for two.

 

Onscreen now, Jimmy wagged a reproachful finger at Claire. “You’re dodging the question, Miss Dearing. So, come on, the world wants to know. Is there anyone special in your life?”

 

“Ummm…” Claire looked at the camera again. And it was ridiculous, because Owen knew she couldn’t actually see him, but it seemed like she was looking right at him, waiting for him to answer, waiting for him to make it clear again, like it had been back on the island.

 

( _What do we do now?_

 _Probably stick together. For survival._ )

 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Jimmy prompted again.

 

At that, Claire blinked, shaking her head a little, as if to clear her thoughts. “Um. No. No boyfriend.”

 

Owen released his own breath, swallowing. Okay. Okay. It made sense. They hadn’t defined anything. If the roles had been reversed, he would have probably answered the same way. On-camera wasn’t really the place to stumble through trying to name what they had when they hadn’t ever actually had that conversation face-to-face.

 

The camera pulled back to a grinning Jimmy, eyes gleaming mischievously. “The reason I ask is because –look, I usually don’t do this, but I’m kind of playing matchmaker a little bit tonight. There’s someone backstage who’d really like to tell you something—is that okay?”

 

For one long, stupid moment, Owen actually thought they were coming for him. It wasn’t until Rock Hadley was crossing the stage to a soundtrack of screaming fans, holding a bouquet of red roses in his arms, that Owen half-stumbled into the obvious conclusion. Rock Hadley, the guy who had tattooed the spot on his bicep where he’d been punched by an Eastern lowland gorilla, who’d raised a wolf cub that slept at the foot of his bed, and who’d been dragged by the fin of a great white for twenty yards through the Pacific Ocean. Of course he’d want to meet the woman who’d outrun a T-Rex in heels.

 

He offered the bouquet to a stunned-looking Claire, giving a self-conscious wave and grin to the audience before redirecting his focus to the red-head. “Hi. Big fan. I was, uh, wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

 

Huh.

 

 _Huh_.

 

Owen stared at the monitor, watching as Claire stared back at the camera, her third “Umm” of the night nearly drowned out by the shrieks and cheers of the audience, who were absolutely eating all of this up. This “umm” sounded like it almost had a question mark at the end of it, like she was waiting for someone to answer for her.

 

“Sure,” she said finally, nodding a little as if to convince herself.

 

In the course of his lifetime, Owen had been sucker punched approximately four times. This felt a hell of a lot worse.

 

Owen’s phone buzzed at his side. Still staring at the monitor— _oh, wow, Claire was standing up now, and she and Rock were hugging. Awesome_ —he unlocked the screen without looking before finally managing to wrench his gaze away from the television.

 

It was a text from Zack. _Dude. You snooze, you lose_.

 

Owen tossed it aside without a second glance. “Huh,” he said out loud, rubbing a hand over the bottom half of his face.

 

 

TBC


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Jimmy Fallon proposal. Claire's POV, with some of her own jealousy thrown into the mix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much for the response to this! Sorry I've been MIA but life got crazy. To thank you for your patience, I'm uploading two chapters at once. This first one gets a bit more serious, but no worries, more hijinks are on their way!

***

The embarrassing thing was, for about twenty seconds, she convinced herself that it was going to be Owen.

 

Which was stupid, really. She knew him well enough by now to know that he wasn’t a “big gesture” kind of guy. He was surprisingly attune to the small details of day-to-day living—blanket and pillows always stacked in a neat pile at the end of the couch when they weren’t in use, coffee always stocked and brewing first thing in the morning. And, honest to goodness, he put the toilet seat down, every time, which had come as nothing if not a pleasant surprise.

 

But big gestures? She’d learned enough from their miserable attempt at a first date not to put too much stock in that. ( _Yes, he’d saved her life, but board shorts? Flip-flops? Some things were still unforgivable_.)

 

And yet apparently she hadn’t learned enough, because Jimmy Fallon was heckling her and the audience was cheering and Claire’s heart was in her throat as she turned—

 

To see some stranger walking toward her, grinning like a Colgate ad. Granted, he was a notably attractive stranger, and pre-incident Claire might have been impressed by the cut of the suit and the shine of the shoes—and, okay, post-island Claire was still kind of impressed, because _damn_ Brioni knew how to fit a man’s shoulders just right…

 

But he wasn’t Owen.

 

The first proof of this—besides his actually physically not being Owen—was that he’d asked her out, on an actual date, with actual flowers, and was making his intentions incredibly clear. So yeah, definitely not Owen Grady.

 

She’d been living with Owen for two months now—two months of hearing his light almost-snore from the other room before she drifted off to sleep. Two months of pretending to read the morning paper while she watched him do crunches. And she still had absolutely no idea if they were taking things slow or if to Owen she was just another extension of a Gray or a Zack: someone with whom he’d survived something terrible and toward whom he felt a sense of responsibility, only she had the benefit of being an adult an owning a sofa on which he could crash.

 

She’d discussed it with Karen during their trip out to Wisconsin, in the kitchen in hushed tones while the boys watched some sporting event downstairs in the den. Anticipating that her infinitely practical older sister would tell her she was smart not to rush into things after such a traumatic experience, Claire had been surprised when Karen had instead gaped at her in open-mouthed surprise.

 

“You mean, you aren’t hitting that?” She slapped Claire’s shoulder, harder than was necessary. “Why aren’t you hitting that?”

 

Claire grimaced at her. “Stop saying ‘hitting that’.” Post-divorce Karen had been watching a lot of television series about middle-aged women getting their grooves back, and had unfortunately picked up quite a bit of their vocabulary. “And it’s not like I’ve been turning down offers.” She gripped the neck of her sweater self-consciously. “There have _been_ no offers.”

 

Karen took a long sip of her chardonnay—another occupation that seemed to be taking up a lot of her time post-divorce. “Well, I’m sure it’s fine. It’s fine. I mean, the man lives with you. You spend all your time together. I’m sure when the time is right…”

 

Claire was almost on her way to being comforted, until she saw the faint grimace at the tail-end of Karen’s dangling sentence. “What? What was that look?”

 

“Nothing, nothing.” Another grimace from Karen. “Well, I mean, he _has_ seen you with dinosaur shit on your face. It’s kinda hard to come back from that.”

 

Claire had fumed about that the entire rest of the trip, and sometimes late at night when her bed just felt so loomingly large for someone who was going to spend the entire rest of her life in it, alone. For the record, Owen had kissed her _after_ she’d smeared dinosaur shit on her face, thank you very much.

 

And… never again. Not even a peck on the cheek. That placed her somewhere roughly in the category of more adult than Zack and Gray but even less kissable than his grandmother or elderly aunt. Wonderful.

 

#

 

Saying yes to a dinner invitation from Rock Hadley wasn’t a conscious effort to make Owen jealous—what else was she supposed to do, with lights in her face and tall blond Australian holding out roses and a studio audience chanting “Yes, yes, yes!” at her?—but a small part of Claire had been very, very curious to see what his reaction would be, once she got backstage.

 

The scenarios she imagined—ranging from him declaring his undying love to challenging Rock Hadley to a fist fight—were, admittedly, ridiculous, but it was still incredibly deflating to find Owen on his phone in the green room, barely bothering to look up when she entered.

 

She cleared her throat. “Hey. Did you watch the show?”

 

“Mm-hmm.” Owen shook his head, laughing a little. “Man, box of lies with Sandra Bullock. That was hysterical.”

 

Claire stared at him, blinked. “Was that the only thing you remember happening…?”

 

He finally looked up and met her gaze. “Oh, yeah. Hot date tomorrow. That should be fun, huh?”

 

His voice was bright, slightly sarcastic, tone insinuating she was just a little bit ridiculous. Claire’s heart sunk in her chest. He sounded like island Owen, the one who made stupid jokes about consulting in his bungalow, not the guy who held her while she cried and left smiley-faces for her on the post-shower mirror and always remembered to pick up the granola she liked when he went to the grocery store.

 

She swallowed, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, that was kind of crazy. I mean, I don’t… I don’t have to go.”

 

“But you probably should, right?” “I…should?” He held up a few fingers, as if calculating it out in his mind. “I mean, I know for a fact it’s been at least two months, and if I had to guess before that, I’d say… a year? At least?”

 

Claire stared at him a long moment before shaking her head. “Unbelievable.” And turning on her heel, she let the door slam shut behind her.

 

Owen caught up to her as she made her way out the studio exit, still struggling into her coat, she’d been in such a hurry to get away from him. “I’ve been thinking about your itinerary for the big night, and I kind of feel like you should schedule in the sex first—you know, really work up an appetite—and then dinner, maybe a show? I hear _Book of Mormon_ is hilarious…”

 

Claire rounded on him, mindful of the people milling around, probably waiting for Jimmy’s autograph, but not caring. “What is your problem? Why are you being like this?”

 

He held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just looking out for you, bro. Isn’t that what roommates do?”

 

“Claire.”

 

She turned on instinct at the sound of her name, had just enough time to register Aaron’s face—Zara’s Aaron, who was supposed to marry her on Valentine’s Day—before she saw the gun.

 

And then people were screaming, and Owen was shouting her name, and security rushed in and somehow Claire ended up on the ground, looking up, dazed, as Aaron was pushed to the pavement on his stomach and handcuffed.

 

No shots were even fired—but Claire could have predicted that, if she’d been able to open her mouth. She had no idea how Aaron had gotten the gun, but he wasn’t dangerous—he was a pediatrician from Louisiana, with the accent and everything. A little too much frat in him for Claire’s taste, but a southern gentleman, the kind who’d always opened doors for both her and Zara, and who “yes ma’am”-ed her anytime she asked him a question.

 

Now he was shouting obscenities at her and crying and telling her on a loop, “You dumb bitch, this is all your fault.”

 

And Claire was crying, too, and people were whispering now and recording with their iPhones, and Claire knew she should get up, but she was searching, searching—

 

And then Owen’s arm was around her, and he was half-dragging her toward the car that was already waiting for them. “I got you,” he murmured into her hairline. “I got you.”

 

#

 

Before Zara, there had been another assistant: Ma’ila, from Hawaii, who was all silk hair and legs and who always wore skirts that hit her thigh just so, and around whom Lowery could not manage to get out a full sentence.

 

Claire knew she was meant to feel threatened by this, but she liked Ma’ila’s drive, her intelligence, her take-no-prisoners attitude. She found out Ma’ila had been on the volleyball team throughout college, and it made sense, because she could be downright ruthless, but that was always a quality Claire admired in other women.

 

It also probably helped that Ma’ila had an on-again, off-again boyfriend who was a Venezuelan telenovela star, so all the men on the island were virtually fire hydrants to her as far as sex appeal went. No messy relationship stuff, no complications.

 

It was she who’d first pointed out Owen’s attention to Claire. Claire had noticed him before—of course she’d noticed him. He was attractive, albeit not her usual type, and he strutted around the place like he was the quarterback of the high school football team (Go, Raptors!), but their positions afforded relatively little opportunity for interaction. He was, strictly speaking, under the direct employ of InGen, while she worked more for Mr. Masrani. The two overlapped quite a bit, and it was a small island, but she stayed mainly in headquarters and he in the raptor paddock.

 

The only time their paths really crossed was in the employee gym. With her erratic hours, Claire had anticipated being the only person who’d be making use of it at 11:00 at night, but semi-regularly, and then almost daily, she found herself running into him there.

 

The first couple times, they merely nodded in acknowledgement to each other then went about their workouts. The fifth or so (not that she was counting), he took the treadmill next to hers, matched her pace for a few minutes, then gave her a pointed smirk before upping his pace a few degrees. Never one to be outdone— _she hadn’t settled for vice-president of the student body, had she? Or Salutatorian of her graduating class?_ —Claire upped her own pace three points higher.

 

This went back and forth for the next half hour, until both of them were red in the face and breathing heavy, and it honestly didn’t occur to Claire until the third or fourth time they did this together that he was just teasing her, she wanted so badly to win.

 

“Indiana Jones is staring at you,” Ma’ila informed her after a couple weeks of this in the employee cafeteria.

 

Surprised, Claire looked up from her phone to see Owen watching her unabashedly from across the room. He gave her an exaggerated bro nod and she rolled her eyes and went back to her salad, with vigor.

 

Ma’ila just laughed. “How do you even know him? I pretty much plan out your day and I’ve never seen you two bump paths. Is there a secret affair? Tell me there’s a secret affair.”

 

“Hardly.” Claire explained the gym scenario, concluding with, “It’s completely ridiculous. I don’t know why I keep letting him goad me into it.”

 

“It sounds like he’s flirting to me.”

 

Claire nearly choked on a piece of spinach. “He’s just a meat-head ex-navy guy”—okay, so maybe she’d looked up his file—“who’s bored and thinks I’m a pushover. Which I’m not.”

 

Ma’ila laughed. “Trust me, Claire. _Nobody_ thinks you’re a pushover…”

 

That had seemed like the end of that, until one night a few weeks later, Ma’ila showed up at the gym. Maybe Claire should have seen it coming. Ma’ila’d been sniffling and eating contraband Toblerone all day, which meant yet another breakup with Paolo, and maybe if Claire had been a better boss she might have tried to talk to her about it, but there’d been a meeting with Pepsi and another with Lex Murphy, head of the Hammond Foundation, and frankly, it wasn’t her job to play _Sex and the City_ with her employees. She didn’t care who Ma’ila was dating, as long as she got her job done.

 

At least, she’d never cared much until Ma’ila showed up at 11:05, wearing a skimpy tank top and even skimpier shorts and planting herself right in front of the treadmills to do her yoga. Stone-faced, Claire kept her eyes trained on the television monitor overhead, pretending to watch _CNN_ though not registering a single word of it. She didn’t glance over at Owen even once to see where his eyes were, though she could pretty well guess, and it was just so _typical_ and she felt infuriated—on behalf of woman-kind—that Ma’ila should be so completely obvious.

 

A couple times, Claire thought she felt Owen watching her when Ma’ila suddenly seemed to have found herself at the water fountain at the same exact time as him, laughing and liberally touching his arm. But that was ridiculous, because Claire had learned from experience quite some time ago that being senior class president and valedictorian didn’t really amount to shit when there was giggling and arm-touching on the table, and all she wanted was to run in peace, which clearly wasn’t going to happen that night, so she left.

 

The next day, some visa issues suddenly came up for Ma’ila, so she had to be reassigned back to the mainland and Claire had to find a new assistant. Zara showed up capable, fully dressed—and engaged to be married to the man of her dreams.

 

“You’re perfect!” Claire enthused and happily went about doing the requisite hiring paperwork.

 

The next day, after showing her around the facilities, they stopped to have lunch at the employee cafeteria. While Zara was off re-filling her water bottle, Claire looked up from her phone to see Owen standing over her.

 

Fully clothed didn’t do justice to his body the same way that a tank and running shorts did. Claire blinked back the thought, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Can I help you?”

 

He smirked at her a little, nodding in the direction of the drinking station. “New assistant?”

 

“Ma’ila had to be reassigned back to California.”

 

Owen nodded, looking weirdly pleased by that for some reason. “Who’s the new girl?”

 

“Zara.” Claire couldn’t help but add, “She’s engaged.”

 

Owen’s eyes slid back to hers, and his smirk deepened. “Is she now?”

 

And that night at the gym, he asked Claire out for the infamously bad first date.

 

#

 

Now Zara was dead and Ma’ila was safe and sound in San Diego. It was probably the biggest favor anyone had ever done her.

 

Claire replayed this over and over again in her mind as she stared and the ceiling and tried to shift as little as possible. It didn’t escape her that she was finally sharing a bed with Owen, though both of them were on top of the covers, fully dressed, after the weirdest night of being asked out by a thrill-junkie celebrity and then attacked by the fiancé of a dead employee.

 

But maybe that was just her life now. Maybe this was the bizarro hell she’d signed up for when she took on Masrani’s park and had the audacity to think she’d handle it better than the other guys had before her.

 

_It’ll be a mistake_ , Alan Grant had warned her via e-mail when she’d approached him about coming on as a consultant. _The kind that follows you around for the rest of your life._

 

She understood that, now. Too late.

 

“Hey.” Owen’s hand, warm on her bare back. Whatever anger had been compelling him to act like a jackass earlier seemed to have been drained out of him. He’d been too scared, too relieved to see she was okay. The entire time they’d spent debriefing at the police station, he’d found some way to be touching her—hand on her elbow, arm around her shoulders, knees touching under the table. Not in a sexy way, but almost as if to reassure himself that she was still there, that she was all right.

 

She hadn’t even known he was still awake, hadn’t realized she’d made the slightest sound or movement to indicate that she was, too, but that was Owen. He could be so completely oblivious—like the time she’d all but invited him into her bed, and he’d started talking about real-estate prices and escrow—and then so alarmingly insightful. Like now.

 

“It wasn’t your fault, Claire.”

 

She stilled at the words. He’d said them so many times to her now that she wondered how he managed to do it anymore with any feeling, but he did. She was too tired to argue that it was, that Aaron was right to be furious—the whole world was right to be furious. She was a monster, just as certain as the one she’d created, except she hadn’t been mixed up in a test tube. Her monstrosity was created entirely from greed and pride and a refusal to admit that she needed help sometimes, that she wasn’t perfect.

 

Shifting, Claire rested her head against his chest. “Hold me?” she murmured, closing her eyes. He did.

 

 

 

TBC...


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> InGen sends in some special forces to clear up Claire's PR, and Claire can't seem to get out of the bathtub.

Claire woke the next morning to Owen still snoring softly beside her and gently extricated herself from his arms before padding into the en suite and filling up the tub. They’d been at the police station for hours the previous night, going over the report in excruciating detail, and the whole time all Claire could think about was getting in the bath. By the time they returned to the hotel, she’d been too tired to even take off her shoes, but now at last she could have a little delayed gratification.

 

As she waited for the tub to fill, she listened to her phone messages, most of which were from Karen. The first few were nearly incoherent shrieks—“Rock Hadley! Ahh! He’s so… Australian…!” “Is Owen freaking out? I bet he’s FLIPPING out!”—that sobered after the incident with Aaron must have aired on the news. “Text me when you can. I love you, Claire Bear. Call me.”

 

There was one, short and to the point from the InGen lawyers. “Miss Dearing. Please contact us at your earliest convenience. We’re sending a representative to New York to meet up with you.” Which sounded calm, but which Claire really knew mean ASAP with about four exclamation points behind it. They must have seen the news report, too.

 

She should call Karen back first, say hi to the boys—Gray, especially, got nervous about stuff like this, would need a little reassurance. The lawyers, too, would need some talking down, and maybe she could persuade them not to send out their “representative”; God, that sounded ominous.

 

This bath was proving to be not all that relaxing after all. Feeling a slight spasm in her back that Claire knew meant she was in for at least one stress headache that day, she impulsively sucked in a breath and submerged her head underwater.

 

When she came back up again, wiping wet hair and soap suds from her eyes, she froze at the sight of Owen, who seemed equally frozen at the sight of her, one hand still on the doorknob.

 

Belatedly, Claire made a half-hearted move to cover herself, and Owen immediately snapped out of it, turning his back to her. “Sorry. Sorry. I knocked, but I guess you were—there’s a lawyer who’s barged her way in here and she seems pretty insistent to see you.”

 

“I’m in public relations,” the woman in question corrected him, walking, uninvited, past him into the en suite and perching herself at the edge of the counter, “your lawyers hired me to do damage control after the shitfest that was last night.” She extended her palm. “Susan Wexler.”

 

Claire just stared at her, unwilling to move either of the arms that were now covering her breasts. “Naked,” she returned pointedly. “Can you give me a minute?”

 

“Not if I’m going to have time to save you from the feeding frenzy the media has planned for you.” Susan pulled out her phone and immediately began typing away. “Okay, first things first, I have you doing a literacy thing downtown with some urban youth, but we’ll have to have you done by two so you have time to get ready for the big date.”

 

The big date. Right. In all the fuss, Claire had nearly forgotten. She groaned, sinking down in the water a little. “I sort of thought I could. You know. Cancel that.”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Owen shift a little. Susan lowered her phone and stared at her like she’d grown a third breast. Which would have made things a bit more inconvenient to cover up, all things considered. “No, no, no, sweetheart. You are going on that date.”

 

“I’m pretty sure that whole thing was a joke. Like, one of those Jimmy Fallon hilarious prank kind of things.” Okay, Claire really had no idea what she was talking about, but she vaguely recalled Zach trying to show her some YouTube videos at some point during their last trip out. “I don’t think Rock Hadley actually expects to take me to dinner.”

 

“His people have already cleared it with your people, which is now me.” Susan typed furiously for another moment. “So yeah, he expects it. And furthermore—the public expects it, and we mustn’t let the public down, now must we?”

 

Another shift from Owen. “I doubt people care about Claire going on a date with some guy, especially after—”

 

He stopped himself, but it wasn’t hard to follow. Claire swallowed, struggling to keep her voice even. “—after someone attacked me for being responsible for the death of his fiancé.”

 

“That’s exactly why you have to go,” Susan countered. “Right now public sympathy is on the side of the guy with the dead girlfriend—”

 

“Her name was Zara,” Claire interrupted through gritted teeth.

 

Susan blew past it as if she hadn’t heard. “And believe me, it’s difficult to combat a tragic love story, unless we have something just as good to offer. We’re fighting love with love. Tragic dead girlfriend with shiny new romantic comedy. It’s like using _Pretty Woman_ to counteract _Titanic_.”

 

Owen cleared his throat, back still turned toward them. “So to be clear, in this scenario Claire is the high-class prostitute?”

 

Susan swiveled her attention to him, giving an appraising look. “You’re funny. Turn around so I can get a good look at you.”

 

“Naked, here,” Claire reminded her. Susan shh’d her, eyes still on Owen. “Come on. Turn around. I gotta see what I’m working with here.”

 

A slow moment’s hesitation, then Owen turned. Claire watched him carefully, but his eyes stayed up on the ceiling, never once deviating— _yep, she was definitely in sexless grandmother/great aunt territory if he wouldn’t even sneak a peek while she was naked in the tub_ —though his Adam’s apple was bobbing like crazy and his smirk seemed unusually strained.

 

“Oh, you are adorable.” Susan appraised him openly, circling around him before hopping back on the counter once more. “What are you, the bodyguard or something?”

 

Owen blinked his gaze down to her, frowning a little now. “I was on the island. I’m Owen Grady.” At her blank stare, he added somewhat less confidently, “The raptor guy.”

 

Susan waved him off. “I didn’t really follow the story, truth be told. Let’s just say one of my clients is an underage and very promiscuous Disney channel star and things always get a little busy around the holidays. But you are cute. I’m sure we can brainstorm some way to put you to work.”

 

Claire frowned. Was it just her imagination, or had there been a thinly veiled double entendre in there…?

 

Her phone rang, interrupting the thought. Without bothering to check the number—she was too flustered, and 99% chance it was her sister, anyway—Claire answered. “Hi, Karen, give me a minute—”

 

“Claire?”

 

The voice was deep, Australian, and decidedly not her sister. Claire swallowed, pushing back her wet hair from her face, even though she knew he couldn’t actually see her. “Rock. Hi. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

 

At that, both Susan and Owen snapped to attention. For a brief moment, Claire and Owen made eye contact, until he remembered himself and looked up at the ceiling again, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

 

Susan was frowning. “Why is he calling? I already worked out the deal with his manager…”

 

“…I saw what happened on the news last night, and I know there’ve been a ton of calls going back and forth all morning, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And that you actually want to do this tonight. I know I kind of ambushed you on the show, and I want you to know, no hard feelings if the answer’s no.”

 

Claire stilled. It was surprisingly thoughtful, and sweet. “Well, I…”

 

Susan was making manic gestures at her to put the call on speaker phone. Claire ignored her. “I’m okay. Thank you for asking.” If Susan heard the barb behind that, she didn’t let on. “And as far as dinner goes…”

 

She took in a breath. On the one hand, Susan—although obnoxious—could potentially be right. And though Claire certainly didn’t expect to be winning popularity contests with the public anytime soon, she knew much of the lawsuit, her future career prospects, and even the way the media chose to go after Karen and Zach and Gray all depended on how well she played the game. It was one dinner, with one very attractive man who was proving to not be a complete jackass. The only real objection was—

 

Owen made an abrupt beeline for the door, calling over his shoulder as he went, “Better warn him about the board shorts.”

 

_Board shorts?_ Susan mouthed to her, but Claire ignored her, heart sinking a little in her chest as she forced out her brightest tone. “Does 8 o’clock work for you…?”

 

TBC...


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of the big date, but Owen won't share his pizza, dammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all lovely. Thank you for the compliments and the kudos! In honor of my third viewing of JW tonight and all of the ensuing inspiration (God, their chemistry is good, isn't it?), here's the next chapter. (Also, on the rewatch I realize I named Zara's fiance the wrong thing in chapter two. Alec, not Aaron.)

 

***

Claire had balked a little at first at Susan’s insistence that it would take them five hours to prep her for her date— _she had survived a dinosaur apocalypse in heels; surely getting ready for a dinner shouldn’t be just as grueling_ —but five hours later, she’d been plucked and waxed and conditioned and exfoliated, and honest to goodness she had no idea what they’d done to her hair, but it looked like a million dollars. _She_ looked like a million dollars.

 

As she made her way back to the hotel room, she wondered what Owen would think of it, then winced at herself and shook her head. _Don’t be stupid, Claire._

 

It seemed funny to think it now, but in high school she’d had the biggest crush on Scott, even though everyone else in the entire known universe could tell he was in love with Karen. Finally, her mother had forced her to sit down and have a heart-to-heart that still made Claire cringe to remember.

 

( _“Think about it, sweetheart. When he comes over here, it’s always to see Karen. They went to homecoming together. He bought her that bracelet for Christmas. Where did you think this was going…?”_ )

 

In some ways, Claire was glad her mother hadn’t lived to see the whole Jurassic World fiasco, but sometimes that same voice of reason still echoed in her mind, especially now that so many of her thoughts revolved around Owen.

 

( _“Think about it, sweetheart. You’ve been living together for two months and he hasn’t so much as kissed you. Another man asked you on a date and he encouraged you to go. You shared a bed last night and he didn’t try to cop a feel even once. Where do you think this is going…?”_)

 

It was becoming painfully, painfully clear that when Owen had told her they should stick together for survival, he’d meant as buddies. Pals. They were somewhere beyond sex now. They were… _friends_. And maybe that was better in the long run. Maybe— _despite the increasingly frequent dreams that made her wake short of breath and with her thighs pressed tight together_ —it was better to keep it platonic, because they could really be there for each other that way, and nobody would ever get hurt.

 

With that resolutely in mind, Claire nodded a little to herself before reaching for the hotel door. A sharp spasm of pain darted up her neck at the movement, but she shook her head and willed it away before stepping inside.

 

Despite everything she’d just decided, Claire still held her breath as she waited for Owen to look up from the television and notice her. He did, face blank, before looking back to the TV and motioning half-heartedly to the pizza box on the bed. “Hey, you hungry?”

 

Starving. Claire’s stomach grumbled in loud agreement, even as her heart plummeted in disappointment. Five hours being primped and preened and polished and she didn’t warrant even a half-hearted _“You look nice.”_ She forced a smile. “I better not.”

 

Owen nodded, even as he reached for another slice of pepperoni. “Right. The big date. Where are you guys meeting?”

 

“Here, actually. Then to the Gramercy Tavern.”

 

He looked up at that, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “Wasn’t that one of the ones in your book thing-y?”

 

The _Zagat_. Claire swallowed back a lump as she remembered how stupidly and naively she’d believed this trip would go differently. A brief appearance on _Jimmy Fallon_ , then she and Owen could do some sightseeing, get dinner in a cozy restaurant … etcetera. Wink wink, nudge nudge. She’d circled half a dozen places in her Zagat and pestered Owen to pick one of them on the plane until he finally gripped her wrist and looked deep into her eyes and said, “It doesn’t matter to me, Claire.” And, idiot that she was, she’d taken that to mean, _It doesn’t matter to me, Claire, as long as I’m with you_ when what it had probably meant in actuality was _It doesn’t matter to me, Claire, as long as I get to eat._

 

Well, he had his pizza on the bed, which he’d probably prefer anyway. And she had an Australian and a little healthy dose of reality.

 

“So he’s coming here, huh?” Owen interrupted her thoughts. She blinked to find him appraising her. “Won’t it cramp your style when he figures out you’ve been sharing the room with another man?”

 

Claire honestly hadn’t thought about that. It was standard for a gentleman to pick up a lady—even Owen had managed that much, albeit on his motorcycle. “It was a chivalrous offer—what was I supposed to say, no?”

 

“How’re you gonna explain me to him?” Owen pressed. “The random dude, eating pizza in your bed.”

 

She managed a wry smile. “I’ll just say you’re his biggest fan and couldn’t wait to get his autograph.”

 

Which had been true, up until yesterday. Now Owen snorted, and grumbled under his breath, “That guy? No thanks. I have enough tools in my garage at home.”

 

“Mm-hmm.” Claire glanced at her watch. It was another twenty minutes before Rock was supposed to pick her up. As the world now well-knew, she wasn’t exactly a stranger to high heels, but if she was going to be traipsing all over Manhattan all night, she should probably take advantage of the downtime while she could. “Scoot over,” she instructed Owen. “I need to sit for a minute.”

 

He did, begrudgingly, scooting the pizza box with him. “Just don’t get too comfortable, okay? _Terminator 2_ is on and I’m not changing it for _Downton Abbey_.”

 

She perked up considerably at that. “ _Downton Abbey_ ’s on?”

 

“You have about eight thousand of those TiVo’ed at home.”

 

“Which you’ve been watching with me, religiously,” she couldn’t help but remind him.

 

An irritated huffing noise escaped Owen’s throat. “Well, I need to find out if Bates gets out of jail, don’t I?”

 

Claire suppressed a small smile at that, reaching across him for the pizza box.

 

Owen recoiled away from her arm as if it was toxic, gathering the box under his arms protectively. “What are you doing?”

 

Still half-extended over him, Claire blinked incredulously. God, was she really that disgusting? “You said I could have some pizza.”

 

“That was five minutes ago. The offer’s expired.”

 

Seriously? “ _Owen_.”

 

“You’re going out to dinner anyway, remember?”

 

“Yeah, but by the time we get there and order…” Claire rose to her knees, crawling over him to get past his forearm. “I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. Just a small piece, Owen, I’m _starving_.”

 

Owen made a sound that was half-hiss, half-sigh, swearing out a string of swear words on his exhale that all sort of garbled together into one-super-swear. “ _Damnshithellfuck_.”

 

Too late, Claire realized she was virtually straddling him, the front of her low-cut halter v-neck gaping wide open. It was her turn to recoil, feeling a flush work its way up her chest. Ah, the joys of being a ginger. “Sorry. Sorry.”

 

Owen wouldn’t look at her, a muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Could you just move back a little? Your smell is kind of…distracting.”

 

Claire gaped at him. “My _smell_?”

 

“It’s like they bathed you in perfume, or something, and the fan keeps catching your hair and—look, could you just stay on your side of the bed?”

 

“Unbelievable.” Claire made to get off the bed altogether but froze halfway, gasping in pain and falling back as another sharp spasm shot up to her shoulder blades.

 

Owen froze, too, hands in the air as if in surrender. “Whoa, drama queen. I didn’t even touch you.”

 

Claire gritted her teeth. “It’s a back spasm. From stress. I’ve been dealing with it since freshman year of college. It’s fine, really. It’ll pass.”

 

She tried to ease herself back against the pillow, hissing through her teeth all the while. Owen watched her, perplexed. “We survive an island full of dinosaurs and your back is fine, but I deny you pizza and you start spasming out?”

 

Claire closed her eyes. “Congratulations. Having a conversation with you is more stressful than a near-death situation.” She bit her lip as she attempted to ease back again but couldn’t help tears that sprang to her eyes. “You know, it wouldn’t have killed you to say one nice thing to me. You’ve made it perfectly clear you find me repulsive but anyone with even a grain of common decency would—”

 

Owen spoke up over her, voice suddenly resolute. “Sit up. Let me take a look.”

 

“It’s _fine_ , Owen. Just shut up for five seconds and leave me alone—”

 

But suddenly he was behind her, nudging her to sit forward as he straddled her with his knees on either side. He began to experimentally knead her back and shoulders with his strong, callused fingers. “Geez, Claire, your entire back’s in knots.”

 

“It’s been a stressful few months,” Claire allowed, trying to leave the tiniest hint of sting in her voice so he’d understand he was part of that, though it was difficult to maintain with his hands on her bare skin, so warm, so firm.

 

Oh God, it felt so good. Claire bit her lip but that didn’t stop the whimper that escaped her throat.

 

For the second time that night, they both froze, Owen’s hands stilling against her. _Idiot_ , Claire berated herself internally. He was just trying to help her and she had to go and make it weird and sexual. “Sorry—” she stammered.

 

But the word was scarcely out of her mouth when Owen laughed, low and soft, so close she could feel it against her skin. “You like that, huh?”

 

His voice was low, too, and husky, and sent a jolt of want straight to Claire’s groin. She shifted, biting down on her lower lip, hard. _Get a grip, Dearing, he’s laughing at you._ “Okay, I think we’re done here—”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy, girl.” He fastened one arm around her, holding her in place, while the other hand began to explore more liberally, murmuring all the while. “Easy now. Breathe.” Dipping lower now, underneath the fabric of her dress, to the base of her spine. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I just want you to relax.” Trailing up her waist, the backside of her ribcage, the slope of her shoulders, then up to her neck. “Breathe. Trust me, Claire.” His fingers caught at the halter tied there, lingering, a question.

 

Claire’s heart was hammering, pulse throbbing in her neck, and other places, too. He spoke, so close the hairs on the back of her neck bristled in anticipation. “Should I keep going?”

 

She didn’t respond, just waited, holding her breath. She hoped that would be enough but Owen tsked behind her, thumb drawing a slow circle along the back of her neck. “Not good enough, Dearing. I want to hear you say it.”

 

Dammit, she’d seen him do this a hundred times with the raptors. He was using a reward/withhold system to make her submit to his authority. Maybe it was so ingrained in him that he wasn’t even aware of it—but, bastard, she wasn’t giving him the benefit of that doubt.

 

“Owen.” This was meant to come out sharp, aggressive, a mark of her own authority. Instead it was plaintive, almost a plea. She swallowed and added, “ _Don’t_.”

 

“Don’t what, Claire?”

 

_Don’t screw with me, you jackass_ , was what she might have said had she been in her right mind. And maybe, if she was being truly honest, _Don’t hurt me_.

 

What came out, though, was perhaps more honest still: “Don’t stop touching me.”

 

The sound he made was almost primal. Then the tie around her neck was set free, sending her dress pooling around her waist, and he was replacing his fingers with his lips, and Claire was gripping the fabric of his pants, murmuring his name on a loop—

 

And then someone knocked on the door.

 

 

TBC...

 

(Muwahaha. Evil).


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's at the door! But will it be answered...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the lovely kudos and reviews! I've never been so happy to be called "evil" by so many people before. :) :) This is the last, fluffiest chapter in this little story, but I'm planning a one-off companion fic that involves Christmas, mistletoe, and a slinky green dress. So keep an eye out for that! And enjoy!

 

***

 

On the island, Owen had always been sort of wary of Lowery. The guy seemed pretty nice and everything, if a little too eager to talk about his vintage t-shirt collection and his little plastic dinosaurs like they had actual, individual personalities. But there was just something about him that rubbed Owen the wrong way.

 

No. That wasn’t fair. It was nothing that Lowery had actually said or did. Of all the stuffed shirts working up in the control tower with their little special clearance badges, he was by far the most tolerable.

 

It was just that he had access to Claire’s world, and Owen… did not.

 

He’d noticed her for a long time before they bumped into each other at the gym that first night. All the other guys who worked the raptor paddock were always going on about her assistant, Ma’ila, with the long long legs and the short short skirts. Owen wasn’t blind—he saw her, she was beautiful. But Claire…

 

Claire walked around the place like she owned it. She was the queen bee and everyone catered to her whims and she was fearless and in-charge and completely unapologetic about it. She didn’t have to wear the short skirts to get everyone’s attention— _though, God, he wished she would, just once_ —because she was smart as hell and tough as shit and she knew it and so did everybody else.

 

And she was so, so far out of his league.

 

Owen wasn’t normally gun-shy when it came to women. Being ex-navy and working with dangerous, exotic animals was pretty much “a guaranteed panty-dropper,” to quote the always-classy Hoskins and the pitch he’d used to get Owen to take the job with the raptors in the first place.

 

But Claire…Claire made him feel like he was in high school again. She was like one of those gifted kids who graduated two years early and was in student government and, like, played the cello or whatever. And he was the kid in the back of class who could make everyone laugh but who no one thought would get out of their small town, ever, because he was going to end up just like his dad.

 

( _But he did, and he wasn’t, and deep down inside he knew that, he really did. But somewhere even deeper it was harder to leave behind than he’d ever imagined_ ).

 

Lowery maybe wasn’t on the same level as Claire, either, but that key card gave him access to her world. Gave him permission to talk to her while they both filled up their thermoses with coffee in the morning. Gave him the ability to make her smile, even if she did roll her eyes afterward.

 

The one time Owen had tried to catch her eye as they passed each other in the hallway, she’d looked through him as if he weren’t even there. Because to her, he was invisible. Just some guy who fed the raptors. Who didn’t matter so long as he got his job done. Who was so far out of her world that he would never, ever get close enough to touch her.

 

***

 

“Don’t stop touching me,” Claire breathed, her heart pounding hard against his arm that was still bracing her as he held her flush against his chest.

 

Owen’s heart was beating just as hard as he eagerly complied, undoing the tie around her halter dress and sending the fabric pooling down into her lap. She was completely naked now from the waist-up, her skin all creamy-rosed perfection. He wanted to taste every last inch of her but contented himself with starting at her neck. He wanted to devour her in one great gulp but made himself take his time, savoring it, spurred on by each gasp and moan and whimper.

 

She was so _ready_ for him. In all the times he’d imagined what could go wrong, he’d never let himself envision just how it might go right. No scoffing or disdain or pity. It was possible, maybe, that she actually wanted him as much as he wanted her. That she’d been waiting for this, and tossing and turning, and waking up panting, so filled from wanting she thought she might burst from it—just like him.

 

“Owen,” she moaned, head lolling back against him as she gripped the fabric of his pants tight between her fists. And damn, if that wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard—his name spilling out of her lips. “Oh, God, Owen…”

 

And then came the knock at the door.

 

Claire shot out of bed, her mouth spewing out a loop of words that would have made some of Owen’s navy buddies blush. For a moment, she just stood there, half-hugging herself, half-covering herself. Then she looked to Owen, beseechingly, her eyes wide and blue. “It’s Rock.”

 

Sighing, Owen leaned back against the headboard. “Yep.”

 

They stared at one another for a long moment, Owen holding his breath as he waited to see what she would do.

 

Claire was the one to break away, turning her back to him as she fumbled to re-tie her halter, to no avail. “Just a minute!” she called to the looming presence behind the door before glancing over her shoulder at Owen, eyes frantic. “Don’t just sit there. Help me!”

 

“Get ready for your date with another dude?” Owen laced his fingers behind his head, swallowing as he looked up at the ceiling. “Solid pass.”

 

“What am I supposed to do, Owen?” Claire hissed at him. “It was already arranged. I can’t just not answer the door.”

 

The anger came flooding out then, so fierce that Owen had to grit his teeth to keep from punching through the wall. “Why not?”

 

Claire faced him, blinking in surprise. “Because…it’s rude.”

 

“‘Honest’ is the word I think you’re looking for.” Owen shook his head. “But that’s too damn uncomfortable for Claire Dearing, isn’t it? Heaven forbid you drop the mask for five seconds and ever admit what you actually want—”

 

In two steps, she was looming over him, one hand still holding up her dress, the other planted firmly on her hip. “You really wanna point that finger, Grady? ‘Cuz you’re acting like I’m stepping out on you—”

 

He scoffed at her. “‘Stepping out’? Where’d you pick up that lingo, Grandma?”

 

“—when this is the first I’ve ever heard anything about you not wanting me to go on this date. This whole time I’ve been begging you to tell me what you thought about it and you didn’t say a word—”

 

“When did I ever have a chance?”

 

Claire fumbled again for the ties around her neck, settling for a graceless knot that looked terrible but would at least do the trick. “You’ve had nothing _but_ chances, Owen. For two months. Two months! I might as well have been a fire hydrant, for all the interest you showed me. Then someone else starts sniffing around and suddenly you’re interested?”

 

Owen sat up at that, all false bravado shot as an angry flush began to work its way up his neck. “Hey, now. There were two of us living together for two months, as I recall, and the last time I put sex on the table, you told me that ‘wasn’t on the itinerary until date three, maybe never,’ so you can see why my confidence might be a bit shot.”

 

Claire shook her head at him, prettily coifed curls going all akimbo in a way that might be distracting if he wasn’t so pissed at her. “That was _before_ —”

 

“Before what?”

 

“Before everything.” She ran an irritated hand over the back of her neck—and despite his continued irritation, that was distracting, because not two minutes before his lips had been at that exact same spot, and she’d been arching against him and moaning his name.

 

Claire shook her head, as if to clear her mind. “Before the park went to hell, before you saved my life—before you said we should survive together.”

 

Owen had braced himself for anger, but not the open vulnerability in her voice. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, breathing hard. He cleared his throat. “I—”

 

—but was interrupted by another knock at the door. Claire took in a shaky, gasp-y breath, glancing at it and then back at Owen again, imploringly, as if she didn’t quite know what to do.

 

Owen didn’t have the same problem. With an irritated grunt, he crossed the room, swinging open the door.

 

He’d intended to tell Rock Hadley to go to hell, but before he had the chance, the impossibly handsome Aussie’s eyes widened at the sight of him, and he took Owen’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically. “Owen Grady! I can’t believe it. Huge fan, man. I’ve seen some of the footage of what you were doing with those raptors and, wow. Just…wow. Unbelievable stuff.”

 

Owen relented, a little. Okay, so the guy wasn’t _that_ bad, possibly. His only real crime was having good taste, after all. “Uh…thanks. I appreciate it.”

 

Any goodwill Owen might have been feeling for the man fled the second his eyes drifted over to Claire and he swallowed visibly. “Wow. You look—absolutely stunning.”

 

Owen watched Claire’s reaction carefully. She gave a nervous laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh. Thanks.”

 

If it had been any other scenario, Owen might have laughed. For someone who could be such a cold-hearted, ball-crushing bitch— _and he meant that in the most complimentary, admiring way possible_ —she sure turned into a stammering schoolgirl when things got awkward.

 

Completely oblivious, Rock glanced back to Owen. “It was really great to meet you, Owen. I’d love to compare notes sometime. Maybe grab a beer?” Without waiting for an answer, he ventured a step closer to Claire, offering his arm. “Well, shall we?”

 

“Ummmm….” Seemingly impossibly, Claire managed to drag it out even further than she had on the show, her eyes darting to Owen, a question.

 

Which he still didn’t know how to answer. She was waiting for something from him, he could see, but he had no idea what it was. He’d made himself pretty clear, all things considered, and she was an adult woman who’d outrun dinosaurs. If she didn’t want to go with Rock, she should be able to figure that out on her own. Clearly, that wasn’t the case. “Have a good time, I guess,” he managed finally.

 

Was it only his imagination, or was that disappointment in Claire’s eyes? She blinked and it was gone as she smiled up at Rock, taking his arm. “Enjoy your pizza, Mr. Grady,” she called back at him without turning.

 

The door clicked shut, and Owen sank down on the edge of the bed, fishing behind him for the remote control. Onscreen, Sarah Connor was about to kick some serious ass. Owen un-muted it and leaned forward on his elbows to watch.

 

The next instant he was on his feet, crossing the room and not bothering to shut the door behind him as he hurried down the hall.

 

He caught the elevator just as it was closing, inserting his hand and forcing it back open again. Rock and Claire both blinked at him in surprise, which morphed into concern on the hunky blonde’s face. “You all right, mate?”

 

The words came spilling out, tumbling over each other in their haste to get out. “Listen, Rock, you’re a really handsome dude, and you’re sort of, like, freakishly tall and tan and cool. If you put out an autobiography or like a self-help book that you read yourself on the audiobook, I’d totally buy it.”

 

Rock blinked at him in surprise, grinned. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it—”

 

“But the thing is… The thing is…” Owen swallowed, fastening his eyes onto Claire’s. “God, Claire, do you have any idea how much I’ve wanted you these past two months—” He shook his head, needing to be honest, “—since the moment I saw you?”

 

Her eyes, big and blue-green, swimming up at him. “You have?”

 

“We survived something together—something major.” Owen struggled to find the right words that would connect the pieces, make her understand. “I couldn’t be the jackass who was just trying to get into your pants after that. I wanted you too much—” _No, dammit, honesty_ , “—I…love you too much. And unless I’m reading the room really wrong, I’m pretty sure you’re in love with me, too.”

 

He watched at her for confirmation of this; she managed a watery smile.

 

Unable to contain his grin now, Owen turned back to Rock, clapping him on the shoulder. “So no hard feelings, but dinner just isn’t gonna happen. I know it sucks because she’s…well, she’s Claire Dearing. But tonight she’s coming home with me.”

 

He held out his hand to Claire, heart stalling a little in the two-second interim before she reached out for him, lacing her fingers through his. She was grinning now, too, and Owen couldn’t seem to stop either. His jaw was already aching from it, in the very best way possible.

 

Casting one last cursory glance at Rock, Owen gave him a quick, sympathetic nod. “Don’t worry, man. You look like Thor and you swim with sharks. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

 

And with that, he let the elevator door slide shut.

 

#

 

Back in their room, Owen wasted no time— _there’d already been far, far too much of that_ —in pressing Claire up against the wall, kissing her soundly until they’d finally managed to wipe the grins from both their faces. He hoisted her up so that her legs could wrap around his waist, then let his hands follow the trail of her thighs, fingers dipping beneath the fabric of her skirt—

 

A sudden thought struck Owen and he paused, frowning.

 

“Owen?” Claire’s own fingers, threaded through his hair, gave a little tug to force him to look at her. “If you’re getting cold feet on me, so help me God…”

 

Her eyes were half-lidded, nearly incoherent with want, and it was such a beautiful sight his hands tightened compulsively against her skin and he had to bite down on his lip to remain lucid. “Hold that thought,” he instructed, kissing her quickly, then again, before carrying her to the bed and depositing her there. Then, crossing over to the hotel phone, he dialed down to the front desk.

 

“Hi, this is Owen Grady in room 406. I just wanted to let you know in case any other guests arrive, our room isn’t to be disturbed for the rest of the night—including and especially by Susan Wexler. Now, I know how persuasive she can be, but I mean this 100%—if she so much as knocks on our door, not a single person on staff is getting any kind of tip. And furthermore, I will pee somewhere in the hotel room and you will never figure out where and the stench will never completely go away. Do I make myself clear?”

 

The shell-shocked hotel employee managed to mumble something in response before Owen cut her off again, “And if she asks why Claire’s been detained, just tell her that she’s busy having her world rocked by the raptor guy.”

 

He hung up the phone without waiting for any further response, steeling himself before turning to face Claire. She was half-sitting up, doing the lip-curly thing he liked so much, and God, it took everything in him not to lunge across the room and tackle her right then and there. “Way to be subtle, Mr. Grady.”

 

He did tackle her then, enjoying her little squeal of surprise as he pinned her down to the mattress with his body, fingers sliding through hers above her head. “I think we’ve been subtle long enough, don’t you?” he murmured, and kissed her like the world was ending.

 

#

 

“Out of respect to the families of the bereaved, Miss Dearing has politely declined Mr. Hadley’s dinner invitation for the evening, and will instead be donating a sizable amount to the charity that’s been opened in Zara Lane’s behalf. Thank you.”

 

Susan held up a well-manicured hand to the cameras that flashed in her direction, ignoring the barrage of questions from reporters as she buried herself in her phone again. “Stupid raptor guy,” she muttered to herself, flipping through the grainy CCTV-footage screencaps of Owen Grady and Claire Dearing running through the jungle together, fighting off pterodactyls, sharing a quick, searing, life or death kiss.

 

All things she should have made sure she was informed of before she jumped into this thing head-first, but it had seemed such an easy PR break—a stroll in the park, with roses and handsome Australians and an impromptu dinner invite on live television—that she hadn’t bothered to check the facts.

 

She paused on a photo of Claire, disheveled, sweaty, and caked with dirt, but with Owen looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

 

Saving that one, just in case, Susan pocketed the phone. If anything else leaked, maybe she’d have her own tragic love story to play with, try to lure the public to their side. It certainly wouldn’t be difficult, with that picture as photographic evidence. She didn’t even believe in love, really, but that look in his eyes—

 

It was one hell of a convincing argument.

 

_True love_. She sniffed disdainfully. A PR rep’s worst nightmare, truth be told.

 

But every so often, it came in handy.

 

 

The End


End file.
